Rules for a Lady (A Lady's Lessons, Book 1) (19 page)

He shook his head, wishing he had an answer. "They happen everywhere, Amanda. Not just here, but everyplace men reside." He paused, hoping he was wrong. "Surely you have seen it in York."

"Yes." Her voice was soft, filled with a pain that cut straight through to his soul. "But somehow I thought London would be different. Instead, it is worse." Then her expression changed. No longer did he see confusion and sympathetic pain for those unnamed people in Tom's stories, but a hope and a trust in him as she leaned forward, touching his arm in her eagerness. "Surely you can do something for them."

"Do something? Amanda, I am only one man."

"But you are an earl. And you have a seat in the House of Lords. Surely something can be done for the innocents who are not so fortunate as to have a guardian to protect them."

He stared down at her earnest face. He had expected her to plead for her Season, to beg for a reprieve from banishment. Instead she was petitioning for London's innocents, the hundreds or thousands she could not help from the wilds of Yorkshire.

"Oh, Amanda." He sighed, feeling his resistance melt away. "What will I do with you?"

It took a moment for her reaction to set in, but all too soon her eyes widened with surprise and hope. "Does that mean you will say something in the House of Lords?"

Stephen shook his head. "It is not as easy as that." Then he looked down at her sparkling green eyes and knew he could not disappoint her. "Yes, I will raise the issue. And since it is your idea in the first place, I suppose you ought to stay in London long enough to hear me at it."

"But the next meeting of the House of Lords is in..."

"Two weeks."

"Two weeks?" She frowned, but he was not in the least bit fooled. Her eyes were too bright with mischief. "Two weeks is much too soon to prepare properly, what with the Season and the business of the estate. Really, my lord, you must wait until the session after that."

"Oh, must I?"

"Absolutely." She smiled hopefully. "And that is..."

"Six weeks away."

"Goodness." She gasped with feigned shock. "Such a long time for me to sit in the house. I am sure I shall drive myself and everyone around me quite mad."

"Quite," he commented dryly, amusement pulling his cheeks upward into a smile.

"Well, perhaps you will allow me to escape a bit. Maybe to a card party. Or perhaps a ball." She looked up at him, her eyes shimmering emeralds in the moonlight.

He chuckled, amused and enchanted despite his noble intentions. "Truly, Amanda, you are the most manipulative female I have ever met."

"Does that mean I may attend a few parties?" She gazed up at him, her lips quivering with suppressed excitement.

He grinned. "It means if you faithfully remember every single one of your rules..." He paused as she grabbed the paper off the floor and clutched it to her heart. "And write them down every day—"

"Every day," she echoed.

"Then perhaps I can see my way through to allowing a ball or two."

"Oh, thank you, Stephen." She launched herself up from the floor and wrapped her arms around his neck, her list of rules once again forgotten as it fluttered to the floor.

Catching her at the waist, he struggled to remain detached, desperate to keep her tempting softness at arm's length. But he could not hold out. He smelled the lilac water she sprinkled in her hair, heard the whisper of her muslin skirt, and most of all felt her pliant, womanly body pressed so close. Even knowing she was old for her come-out, he was not prepared for the maturity of her body—the ripe curves begging for a man's touch, the heady press of her thighs against his, and the lush swell of her breasts so close to his fingers.

This was no young girl, but a woman whose body tantalized him as no guardian should be tantalized.

"Amanda!" He set her away from him, his body shaking with the need to draw her closer even as he let her go. "Do not do that again!"

She took a step back, shock catching her breath in a soft "Oh!" He could see the hurt clouding her eyes, darkening the green to the color of bruised moss. But what could he say to her? How could he explain his behavior when he himself did not understand it?

He turned away, his expression grim.

"I... I am sorry," she stammered.

"Amanda—"

"I did not mean to offend you."

"You did not off—"

"I had better go to bed now."

Her words conjured an image of her in his bed, stretching out on cool, crisp linens, her hair a sensual halo. He clenched his teeth against his body's instantaneous response.

"Stephen?"

"Good night, Amanda," he said in a growl, hating himself for the cruel sound of his words.

"But—"

"Go."

He could not watch as she jumped away, nearly running from the room, but he heard her. He heard the soft patter of her feet as she dashed down the hall and up the stairs. He flinched at the abrupt clap of her door as it slammed shut above him, echoing in the still house.

Then he heard himself curse—long and fluently as he had not done since Spain.

Chapter 9

Rule #10:

A lady does not hide in closets.

"Do not be nervous, Amanda. It is just a ball, and you will go to hundreds of balls this Season."

"Yes, my lady," Gillian answered automatically, her voice wooden as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. In her hands, just out of sight beneath her dressing table, she held her thin maid's cap, twisting it around and around in her fingers while the countess continued to prattle.

"You look absolutely perfect. That green netting is just the right touch. Hawkings, twitch that curl in place!" The old crone obediently tugged at Gillian's twisting, curling coiffure.

"Yes, absolutely perfect. See? There is no reason to be nervous."

"No, my lady."

"Just remember to use your fan the way I taught you."

"Yes, my lady."

"And do not dance with anyone more than twice."

"No, my lady."

"And for heaven's sake, mind your tongue!"

Gillian tossed a weary glance at the countess's reflection in the mirror. "I will make sure to leave my intellect behind."

The countess nodded until Gillian's comment sank in. Then she gasped in outrage. "You see! That is exactly the type of insolent remark I mean. You have been allowed entirely too much head, my girl—"

"Are you sure that tiara matches your gown, Mother?" interrupted Stephen's low, smooth voice. "Perhaps you should check it one last time before we leave."

All three women spun to look at the earl as he entered her room. Indeed, thought Gillian a little enviously, how could they not? She had never seen Stephen in his finest evening wear, and he literally took her breath away. Unlike her reflection, he appeared the perfect aristocrat. His dark blue dress coat and gold-trimmed waistcoat were the perfect complement to his twinkling blue eyes. His nearly black pantaloons hugged his muscular thighs while providing a striking contrast to the snow white linen of his shirt and the dark silk of his cravat.

Next to him, Gillian felt like a drab bird, washed out in white, her only color in the wispy green netting covering the silk slip.

His mother, of course, wore an elegant pearl gown that accentuated her dainty figure and creamy complexion. Stephen's comments notwithstanding, the pearl tiara was the perfect accessory. Gillian, however, did not say that as the countess suddenly touched her hairpiece with a startled gasp.

"Do you really think so? I could not decide between..." Her voice trailed off as her eyes suddenly narrowed on her son. "Well, you might have just said you wanted to be private with her, Stephen."

Her son bowed his head slightly. "My apologies, Mother. The tiara is perfect."

"Oh, piffle," returned his mother. "Come along, Hawkings." Then, with a disdainful sniff, the countess left the room, the maid trailing silently behind her.

Stephen watched them depart, a fond smile curving his lips. "I never could outfox her. She always found me out in the end."

Gillian did not answer. Her mind was too scattered to think.

What was wrong with her? Here she was, about to embark on her first society ball, and all she could do was stare at her reflection in the mirror. She expected butterflies, nervous agitation, anything but this empty dread dulling her mind.

She was not afraid, she told herself. This had nothing to do with last night's impulsive embrace with the earl. Stephen was formal to a fault. If he did not wish to be touched by her, it made little difference to her.

But it made an enormous difference, her heart whispered. If Stephen did not like her, then what about the others? What about the rest of the
ton
?

So she had sat in her room all afternoon, trying to talk herself out of a prime case of nerves. As for the cap she still clutched beneath the dresser, she had no clue why she had dug it out from its hiding place at the back of her wardrobe. She had never intended to see it again. But for some unknown reason, she retrieved it two hours ago, needing to feel it in her hands.

"Amanda?"

Gillian came back to the present with a startled blink, her gaze catching the earl's handsome reflection in her glass. "Y-yes?" she stammered.

"I, uh, I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night."

She stiffened, not wanting to hear what he said, but unable to stop him.

"I have been off balance lately. It was such a shock, you know, suddenly becoming an earl. There were so many more restrictions and expectations. Suddenly I needed to think about my duties to the title, about which clothes I wear and what I say, when I truly just wanted to lie back with my shoes off and blow a cloud."

For the first time in nearly two hours, Gillian twisted away from her dressing table mirror to stare directly at someone else. "What must it be like?" she asked in excruciatingly dry tones. "To be suddenly hemmed in—your every word, every action, every thought carefully watched and criticized?"

Stephen glanced at her in surprise, then had the grace to flush. "Ah, well, yes," he murmured. "I suppose you women have it a bit more awkward than the men."

"Do you truly think so?" she said with exaggerated innocence. Then she turned back to her mirror, not because she wanted to look at herself, but because there was nowhere else she could go while still holding her mobcap.

She hoped he would leave now, but he remained, coming up behind her, his blue eyes clouded with confusion.

"I am sorry," he said softly.

"I know."

Their gazes caught and held in the mirror. His eyes were confused and embarrassed, but mostly they were sad as he silently asked for her forgiveness. But she could not give it because she wanted more than an apology; she wanted more from him than just words.

She wanted his acceptance. His affection. His l—But her mind balked at the word that came to mind. She did not want that. Surely she did not want
that
.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"Are you sure?"

With a frustrated sigh, Gillian twisted around, needing to confront him face-to-face. "Of course I am sure," she snapped. "I am not one of those whey-faced girls who cannot connect one thought to another! If I say I feel fine, then I am fine! If I tell you nothing is the matter, then nothing is the matter! Lord, but I am tired of people not trusting me to know the simplest things." She paused to take a breath, only then focusing on Stephen.

He had taken a step backward, folded his arms across his chest, and watched her with an expression of tolerant amusement. "Oh, good," he commented. "Just so long as there is nothing the matter."

Gillian felt her mouth go slack in horror. Had she truly just screeched at him like a madwoman? She looked down at her feet, suddenly feeling very foolish. "I am sorry. I do not know what just came over me."

He simply raised one eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.

"I-I mean..." Her voice trailed away.